


Don't Forget to Remember Me

by littlemisshamish



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 15:56:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemisshamish/pseuds/littlemisshamish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A disease threatens to wipe everything away from John's mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Forget to Remember Me

**Author's Note:**

> I tried my hand at angst, and my hand failed me. But please go ahead and read it. And try not to laugh at me. :)

“John.”

I looked up to see Sherlock’s eyes fixed on me. “Huh?”

“I was asking you what you would do with that wet towel.”

I looked at my hand and realized that I was indeed clutching a wet towel. “I uh.. don’t know.”

He narrowed his eyes for a second and continued to stare at me. I cleared my throat and said, “Well, I guess I’d better bring this back to the kitchen.” I still felt his gaze as I made my way to it.

****

-

****

My name is John Hamish Watson. I’m an ex-army doctor, and I know what has been happening to me. During the last few months, there had been incidences where I forget some things. Nothing out of the ordinary—I forget my keys to our flat, my wallet, the place where I was supposed to go, and most recently, the name of my girlfriend. Well, ex-girlfriend. She wasn’t too keen on the idea of having a boyfriend who doesn’t even remember her name. Once, I even forgot that I was cooking something, and I almost burned 221 Baker Street to the ground. I first attributed these occurrences to age. After all, I’m turning forty. Still, forty is too young to experience this kind of memory loss.

I knew this wasn’t normal, so I went to see a doctor. We went to St. Bart’s together, and we haven’t seen each other since I went back to London. I dropped by his office, and we shared a few stories before he examined me. He scheduled me for an MRI and made me undergo some other tests. The results won’t come out until the next day, so we said goodbye to each other, and made an appointment to discuss the results.

****

-

****

“Sherlock, stop staring; you’re freaking me out,” I whispered as I tried to examine the body of a 25-year-old girl who is clearly a murder victim, but Sherlock just continued to stare at me.

“Go on, Doctor.”

“Multiple stab wounds, two are probably fatal. Cuts and bruises on the arms and hands—self-defense injuries. There’s also a rope mark on her neck. The attacker probably tried to strangle her first, wasn’t successful, proceeded to stabbing her.”

Sherlock smiled faintly and began making his deductions. I just stood there and watched him. He was walking around the body, his arms gesturing wildly, as he told Lestrade about how the crime has transpired. It was as if he was there—a silent witness to the violence and cries for mercy. I wonder what it’s like in that mind of his, to be able to look at a person and tell their life story. I wonder if there’s still room in that brilliant mind for trivial matters. I wonder if he will still think of me when I’m gone.

****

-

****

“I’m sorry, John.”

That was all that was needed to be said. My knees suddenly went weak, and a sound like that from a trapped animal escaped from my lips as I tried to find a chair on which to sit down.

“How long?” I managed to ask him.

My doctor looked at me with a pained expression. It clearly wasn’t easy for him. “You’re also a doctor. You already know.”

“Tell me.”

He sighed. “Seven years. More or less.”

I put my hands on my face and wept.

After a while, I managed to pull myself together and try to face the problem like the soldier I am. I thanked my doctor and shook his hand. He gave me a sympathetic smile as he led me to the door. He closed it, and I walked out on the streets, knowing that life will soon close its doors on me.

****

-

****

“John, the kettle’s boiling.”

“Wha— Oh.” I hurried to the kitchen and turned off the stove. I have always thought that tea can solve anything. Whenever i’m upset, I sit on the couch and drink some tea. It can’t make my problems go away, but at least it can make me feel better. Now it’s just there, mocking me. I’ve forgotten again.

“Don’t ever think that you can hide something from me.”

I gasped and turned around to see Sherlock studying me.

“What are you talking about?” I turned away from him and poured tea. He gripped my arm, and I almost spilled tea all over him. He didn’t seem to care.

“Seven years, am I correct?”

I felt the blood drain from my face. How could he possibly know? He didn’t follow me to the clinic, did he?

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Sherlock. Now if you’ll ex—.” He gripped my arm tighter. It hurt, but I welcomed the pain. In seven years, I won’t be feeling anything anymore. Not the pain, not the feeling of Sherlock’s hand on my arm.

“John.”

I just stared at him and said nothing. He stared back and finally let go of my arm.

“You can’t avoid me forever, John. And don’t even think that you can fool me. Face it. You are sick, aren’t you? Confusion, mood swings, memory loss? You went to a doctor yesterday. He must have told you. You’re a doctor yourself. You must have known and just wanted a confirmation. I am right, am I not? You are dying.”

I could have sworn he stressed on the third word. “That was unkind, Sherlock. But you wouldn’t care, would you? Being the machine that you are. Not caring for anyone’s feelings. Nothing but your intelligence and those stupid cases of yours.”

His lips were a thin, straight line. “Are you quite done, John Watson?”

“Yes.” I turned and went to my bedroom. I sat on my bed, staring at nothing.

A few seconds later, there was a knock and Sherlock went in. “I didn’t remember inviting you in.”

He sat beside me and said nothing. Because really, what else is there to say? I’m dying, as he so crudely put it.

“What do you want? You want my answer? Yes, I’m dying! Your deduction is as accurate as ever! You’re so bloody brilliant! The greatest detect—”

My hysterical monologue was left unfinished as Sherlock put his hand on the back of my head and pulled me to his chest. And that was all it took for me to break down and cry. Back in my friend’s clinic, I mourned for my life. For the events I’d never witness, the things I would not do, the family I would not have. And there, locked in an awkward embrace with my best friend, I cried for the suffering I knew I would experience, the things I would soon forget, the people I was desperate to remember.

We sat like that for about half an hour. Sherlock didn’t move, didn’t speak, but he was trembling. I hugged him tighter.

If I could just wish for just one thing, it would be to remember this, just this moment, for the rest of my life. The moment I knew why I didn’t want to die.

****

-

****

“You’re staring,” Sherlock said without even looking at me. He was reading a book, a new one from the look of it.

“I’m not.” Although, of course, I am. I may have been staring at him for quite some time now.

“What is it?” He put his book down and finally looked at me.

“I was...” Better tell him the truth while I was on it. “I was trying to memorise your face.”

“Oh.”

“I won’t die yet, you know. I still have several years left. And I want to spend those years knowing what you look like. I don’t want to... I don’t want to wake up one day and see a stranger. I want to be able to look at you and say, ‘Yes, I remember you. You’re my best friend. An insufferable git, but still very dear to me. You’re Sherlock Holmes.’ I actually considered having your name tattooed on the back of my hand.”

“John, I don’t think—”

“No, I was just kidding. Relax.” I chuckled, but Sherlock remained serious. I cleared my throat. “I know someday I won’t be able to remember most things, but I... I want to make sure that I still know you. You’re all I have, Sherlock.”

Sherlock got up from his chair and knelt in front of mine. He took my hands and put them against his face. “The sense of touch helps remember things better.”

I nodded and began to trace his face with my fingers. Every line, every curve, I tried to put them all inside my head. I could feel hot tears welling in my eyes. I felt them drop, on my hand, on Sherlock’s face. I didn’t care. I kept touching him until finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I leaned down and touched my lips against his. I felt him gasp, but he surrendered to the kiss, wanting, exploring, not wishing to let go.

When we finally did, he stroked my hair and kissed my forehead. “You shouldn’t worry about not being able to remember me, John. If I had to introduce myself to you every day, I would. If I had to tell you that I love you over and over until my throat breaks, I would.”

“You what?”

“I said what I said. Too bad you’re not listening.”

But I am. “In case I forget,” I took his hand in mine and kissed it. “I love you too.”

 


End file.
